


It's All a Bit Harry Potter!

by coyg_81, CuppaTea90, LaBelladoneX



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comedy, Doctor Who References, F/M, Fancy Dress Party, Halloween, Smut, jammy dodgers, misuse of dr who artifacts, muggle fancy dress, so many fandom jokes, you'll never look at a sonic screwdriver in the same way again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-26 21:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20937236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyg_81/pseuds/coyg_81, https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuppaTea90/pseuds/CuppaTea90, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBelladoneX/pseuds/LaBelladoneX
Summary: It's the Malfoy's turn to host the Halloween Ball and this years fancy dress theme is rather... Muggle!What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smithandbarrowman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithandbarrowman/gifts).

> This was written for our friend smithandbarrowman's birthday. With so much happening in the writer's lives we couldn't complete it on time. Updates will be once a week for the next 3 weeks. Hope you all enjoy this crazy party!
> 
> Happiest of birthdays smithandbarrowman. We love you x 
> 
> LaBelladoneX, CuppaTea90, coyg_81

###  **It’s All a Bit Harry Potter**

###  **Chapter 1**

###  **29th February, early afternoon**

###  **Malfoy Manor**

“Guys! I’m hungry!”

His mother rolled her eyes, smiling knowingly at the house-elves beside her as they chatted over tea in the spacious kitchen of Malfoy Manor. Seven-year-old Scorpius was always hungry. 

“Guys? William? Patrick? Jonnnn! Tommmm! Peeettterrr!” He began calling out for his favourite house-elves, getting even louder as he approached the room. “ MUUUM! Can I have an apple? All I can think about. Apples. I love apples. Maybe I’m having a craving. That’s new. Never had cravings before. Woah! Look at that.”

His magic was beginning to manifest at a rapid pace, considering his age, and an assortment of apples were currently hurtling towards him from the pantry.

“Scorpius, what have I told you about shouting?” Hermione prevented him from being battered by the oncoming fruit with a quick wave of her hand. “And where on earth did you hear about cravings?”

“Pansy told Neville who told Harry who told Sirius who told Charlie who told Molly who told Bill who told Fleur who told Victoire who told me that the baby is making her crave things. Neville said he saw her dipping fish fingers into custard the other day! That’s so gross! Like sooooo gross! Did you have any cravings when you were expecting me?”

“Only that your father would drop fussing over everything and driving me mad! Oh, and Vegemite spread on caramel Tim Tams. But that was only towards the end.”

Scorpius didn’t know what Vegemite was, but he knew Tim Tams. His favourite Muggle relation, Martha — his mum’s first cousin, so sort of his second cousin once taken away, or something — sent him Tim Tams all the time. She was sooooo cool. She also sent him Lego sets for his birthday and Christmas, and he loved to visit her via Portkey in Australia because she had a massive school made out of Lego that looked really like Hogwarts. It was huuuge and had loads of bits to fiddle with — when Martha wasn’t looking. Ahem.

Oh, crap! His mum was still talking but he’d lost interest at Tim Tams. Well, who wouldn’t, right? Thinking quickly, Scorpius decided to look busy by taking a large bite out of the apple he’d grabbed from the air and chewing furiously, but the tartness caught him by surprise and he shoved the juicy remainder straight into Hermione’s hand, cutting her off.

“That’s disgusting. What is that?”

“A Granny Smith apple.”

“ Ugh! Apples are rubbish. I hate apples. Can I have a yoghurt?”

Hermione rolled her eyes again — a lifelong habit at this stage, despite her twenty-eight years. “Yes, Scorp,” she sighed, grimacing at the sticky juice rolling down her hand, “go ahead. Just leave your father’s favourites, otherwise he’ll lose it—”

“I’ll lose what?” Draco asked good-naturedly, walking into the kitchen. “Ooh, lovely!”

He whipped the discarded apple from Hermione’s hand and took a bite, humming at its sourness. “I love apples.”

“I’ve just been telling your son that he can have a yoghurt but he can’t touch yours. Not after last time.”

Draco turned on his son, glaring at the young boy. “Do you remember what happened the last time you ate one of my yoghurts?”

“Y-yes, Daddy.”

“Can you repeat the rule, please, Scorpius?”

“Rule Number 210. T.A.R.D.I.S. Touching Anything Relabelled ‘Draco’ Is Sinful.”

“That’s right, Scorpius. T.A.R.D.I.S. And what happens if you break Rule Number 210?”

“You’ll… you’ll take away my Doctor Who Smith and Barrowman soap-on-a-rope and toothbrush holder.”

“Forever! No one touches my maple syrup and rhubarb yoghurts, do you hear me?” Draco shoved the now half-eaten apple back into his wife’s hand and scooped up his son, swinging him around the room and tickling him mercilessly.

“Dad! Dad! Stop!” The young boy cried out, his laughter contagious. 

A _ Sonorous _ suddenly called a halt to the merriment in the kitchen.

“One is trying to read. Would you _ please _ keep that racket down?”

“Sweet Merlin,” Narcissa sighed, stepping in from the conservatory, “that man in one of his moods again.”

“What’s wrong this time?” Draco asked, Scorpius still tucked under his arms.

“I reminded him this morning that it is _ our _ turn to host the Ministry’s annual Halloween Ball.”

“I take it Lucius isn’t enthusiastic?” Hermione asked, glaring at her husband and son as she vanished the apple and cast a _ Scourgify _ over her hand. 

“Well, my dear, that would be the understatement of the year,” her mother-in-law agreed, nodding her thanks as the house-elves on duty served her tea. “My darling—” she looked directly at Hermione “—we are _ definitely _ going to require your assistance regarding the theme of the ball.”

“Certainly,” Hermione agreed instantly. “What is it?”

“I’m not even sure if I’m pronouncing it properly.” Narcissa winced, her features apologetic. “It’s a Muggle term. Em… stye-fi?”

Hermione smiled. “Do you mean _ sci-fi?” _

“Yes! That’s it… I think. Something about super people.”

“Nanna!” Scorpius sounded scandalised. “It’s super_ heroes _ ! Like the ones on my wall! Avengers… Iron Man… Captain America, Thor, Loki… no, wait, not him. Em… _ Dad! _ Will you _ put me down?” _

“Scorpius, make sure Lucius doesn’t hear you calling me that,” Narcissa grinned mischievously at her grandson, placing her cup gently back on its saucer. “You know what he’s like.”

Her grandson bowed low, his tone mocking. “Certainly, Grandmama. My deepest apologies, Grandmama.”

The booming voice of a very annoyed Lucius Malfoy filled the room… again. 

“Young man, you will refer to your grandmother in the proper way, regardless of whatever radical or downright ridiculous ideas your parents are filling your head with.”

“Oh, Grandad!” Scorpius shouted, sticking his head out of the kitchen. “I’m coming to huuuugggg yoooouuu!”

“Never trust a hug…” Lucius began, a slight tremor in his amplified voice.

“It's just a way to hide your face!" Everyone chimed in, elves included. 

Lucius Malfoy was rather predictable.

###  **Four cups of tea, two Cappuccinos, two large firewhiskies, one Butterbeer, three DVDs, an hour long excursion to Scorpius’ room to examine his toys and decor, a colour-coded infographic (copyright: Hermione Granger-Malfoy), and several Venn diagrams later…**

“So that, in a nutshell, is a very brief introduction to science fiction,” Hermione announced, clicking the cap of her pen back in place. “Any questions?”

“He was the young man’s father!” Lucius exclaimed, his eyes wide. “I must admit, I did _ not _ envisage that rather interesting plot twist.”

“Pity Voldemort didn’t wear a mask like his one,” Draco remarked dryly. “I might have kept my dinner down more often.”

“Draco, behave,” Narcissa corrected him. “Now that we know a little more about this — what did you call it, darling? — genre, yes? Right, good. Now that we’re more knowledgeable about this _ genre _, I think organising the ball should be a lot easier. Hermione, what do you have in mind?”

“Well, we could decorate the ballroom and entrance way to look like the interior of the Starship Enterprise — that would be very effective from an aesthetic point of view.”

“I prefer the interior of the Discovery,” Lucius commented, examining some of the artwork Hermione had spread out on his desk. 

“Okay,” she agreed, “that can be done easily enough. But I’m not casting an_ Engorgio _ on a tardigrade simply to make the scene look more authentic, so don’t go getting any strange ideas, Lucius.”

He looked slightly put out. 

“Anyway,” Hermione continued, still looking at her father-in-law, “I was also thinking the five of us, and the elves, could dress up as characters from Doctor Who.”

_ “Who?” _

“Doctor Who.”

“Who’s this Who?”

“Doctor Who! It’s his… and her… name.”

“Who’s name? Is it a man or a woman?”

“They’re both the Doctor.”

“Who?”

“Yes, they’re both Who.”

“Are they related?”

“No, they’re the same person.”

“Who are?”

“STOP!” Draco stood up, a dull thud pulsing above his right eye. “Just… stop. Mother, when is the ball?”

“It has to be held early this year,” Narcissa replied. “Kingsley was saying they’re having an official book launch on the 31st so we’re looking at the 2nd of October.”

“Right. And today’s the 29th… hmmm… Hermione, how many episodes of Doctor Who have there been?”

“Eight hundred and fifty-one, but—”

“Details in a bit, love. Okay, if we start today and watch—” Draco always was super quick at mental arithmatic “—five episodes per day, we’ll be completely up-to-date by early September with plenty of time to decide on characters and costumes. What do you think?”

“It’s not that simple, Draco!” Hermione raised her voice to get his attention.

“Of course it is! All home from work, meetings, school, and whatever it is Father does—” Lucius looked affronted, reading all day took effort “—have the elves serve dinner an hour early, watch our episodes, Scorp is still in bed on time. Sorted.”

“It’s a great idea, Dad!” Scorpius was thrilled. He wasn’t allowed to watch too much television despite his mum setting one up in a spare living room somewhere over the far side of the manor, near the swimming pool… or was it the gym? 

Narcissa was delighted at the idea of spending every evening with her family. As they were always so busy with their own lives, it was difficult to schedule time to sit together. Sometimes Draco was so busy running the family businesses, he didn’t even make it home for dinner. And Hermione travelled occasionally for her job. If they cleared their schedules and spent the next number of months at home every evening, well… Narcissa sighed happily. It would be sheer bliss. 

Lucius was secretly over the moon; he rather enjoyed sneaking off to watch television when he knew no one else was in the house. He’d ward the room, retrieve his secret stash of Jammy Dodgers, and spend many a happy hour watching home makeover programmes. 

“Draco,” Hermione interrupted everyone’s happy thoughts, “it’s not that simple. Yes, there are 851 episodes. There are more things to consider than just the episodes, we’re talking a movie made especially for television, numerous extra-long specials, two animated serials, and there’s nearly one hundred missing episodes! I mean, do you want to count The Trial of a Time Lord as one episode or four? Should we watch the unfinished _ Shada? _ We can’t just sit down tonight with the first boxset and a bowl of popcorn! This needs planning!”

“POPCORN!” Scorpius bounced up and down. “William! Patrick! Jon! Peter! Mum’s promised popcorn!” 

He ran out of the room to find the elves as Draco turned full puppy eye on his wife.

“How can you refuse your only son the chance to bond with his family, Hermione? I’m sure you’ll come up with some way to get your hands on those missing episodes, you’re so clever. And did I mention stunning?”

“Nice one,” Lucius whispered, earning him a slap across the back of the head from his own wife. 

Guess what? Yep, Hermione rolled her eyes again. 

“Ugh! I hate you sometimes, Draco Malfoy,” she moaned. “Give me a week to get everything organised, okay? We’ll start next Friday night.”

“Wonderful!” Narcissa clapped her hands. “I must get the television room redecorated. It’s due a freshen up. I’ll go and have a quick look, think of some new ideas. See you for tea in an hour.”

“Well, I’m off for a stroll,” Lucius suddenly announced. “Need to… stretch the legs, you know.” He hurried towards the door. “Cissa, darling, hold on!”

There were Jammy Dodgers in need of rescuing.

Ever the dedicated student, Hermione took the next week off work and focused entirely on sourcing all available copies of Doctor Who, from 1963 to present day. She found them in video form — VHS _ and _ Betamax — LaserDisc, DVD, Blu-ray, USB, legal download, illegal download, and one original film reel direct from the BBC. 

One copy was sourced through an online chatroom from a guy in a basement in Florida who claimed he’d hacked the episode directly from a NASA satellite. He didn’t charge postage.

As for the missing episodes, a lot of archive programmes were deleted by the BBC between 1967 and 1978 for various reasons — mostly storage issues and a shortage of recording materials. It was discovered, however, that some dedicated fans of the programme had recorded the audio for each programme — sitting with a microphone and an old tape recorder in front of their televisions every Saturday evening. So, as long as online purchasers didn’t mind buying an old cassette tape with the entire episode playing along with ‘Nigel, your tea’s ready’ or ‘Gloria, love, did you put the milk bottles out?’ in the background, all was good. 

It was impossible to track down some, however. They couldn’t be found for love nor money so Hermione did what she did best — she improvised. 

Hermione style.

It really was a blessing that she kept that old Time Turner, wasn’t it?

Shh.

The family quickly fell into a routine. They ate dinner one hour earlier than usual, then Apparated to the television room. 

You’ve seen the manor, right? Apparating was far quicker. 

Hermione put her foot down after Draco had the elves make popcorn four nights in a row and he couldn’t fit into his new robes on the fifth morning due to a ‘slight swelling’ around his stomach. He claimed he had a hernia; his wife insisted he was more bloated than Harry’s Aunt Marge and would be reducing his treat allowance to one evening a week. 

“Honestly, Draco,” she’d complained, “You don’t need to eat crap every evening. Lucius doesn’t snack when watching television — he’s perfectly content as he is. Narcissa and I knit, I… well... I try to, Scorp sits with Crookshanks and rubs his fur. We are all just happy to watch Doctor Who and enjoy the show for what it is. It’s not all about food! And unhealthy food at that!”

“But—”

One look from Hermione and Draco shut his mouth pretty quickly. He’d just have to find a hiding place for his popcorn and eat it when she wasn’t around. Haha! No one will have thought of doing that! 

Hehehe.

Towards the end of the third week, it all turned to shit. They were fast approaching a gap in the first season due to a missing episode and Hermione had the elves fully rehearsed — with elaborate costumes and handmade props — having obtained the screenplays to all missing episodes direct from the writers themselves. Luckily they were still alive, and mostly sane. A little wand waving, Hermione got what she wanted, and the old BBC employees were all a little better off financially, despite not knowing how they managed it. And everytime they tried to call or visit their banks to investigate, they suddenly got an urge to visit the Horniman Museum in Lewisham.

On the first night they were without an episode to watch, the family were asked to adjourn to the manor’s largest ballroom after dinner. Magically enhanced to give the appearance of a theatre, the room was set out with a large stage and comfortable seating. Much to Draco’s dismay, however, there was no concession stand in sight.

The backdrop on the makeshift stage was designed to show a deep red coloured planet, the vastness of a starless space casting it in shadow. This was Skaro, a nuclear wasteland marred by rivers of acid and petrified forests. The floor was barren and desert-like, with imposing cacti-like Varga plants dotted here and there.

The planet was home to Doctor Who’s most terrifying adversaries, the Daleks, or — in this case — several house-elves in painted cardboard boxes with sink plungers, egg whisks, and toilet roll holders sticking out at all angles. They were also charmed by Hermione to levitate a few inches off the floor to give the impression of hovering. 

She directed the entire episode, guiding the elves through scene after scene, including one where a Dalek played with its pet Slyther, a large tentacled animal with severely aggressive tendencies. This particular Dalek was played by one of the younger house-elves and the poor thing got a bit carried away with its movements, knocking three other Daleks, and the Slyther, into the backdrop — causing _ it _ to collapse and reveal a few naked house-elves in the middle of costume changes — before falling headfirst into the artificial river. The costume’s telescopic manipulator arm — i.e. the sink plunger — got stuck in the coloured water that mimicked the flowing acid, and pandemonium ensued when the other elves tried to help their fellow thespian by all casting releasing spells at the same time. The Dalek costume — with attached elf, plunger, egg whisk, bits of toilet roll, and cardboard frame — launched itself across the stage with a massive _ POP! _ and the unfortunate creature landed in an unconscious and rather crumpled heap in the orchestra pit.

Hermione was very thorough with the aesthetics; she just _ conveniently _ forgot the concession stand. 

Hernia, her arse!

Needless to say, all future productions were cancelled. Copies of the scripts for each missing episode were handed out and read at bedtime instead.

###  **Many months, and not enough popcorn, later...**

“So it’s agreed, we’ll dress up as characters from Doctor Who. But let’s keep our outfits a secret so we can surprise each other, right?”

“That’s fine with me, Hermione.”

“Yes, with me also.”

“All good, love.”

“Yep.”

_ “Yes, _ Scorpius.”

“Sorry, Mum.”

“And is everyone happy they know enough about sci-fi now? Or should we watch—”

“No, darling, it’s fine.”

“We’re good.”

“No, love.”

“Nope!”

_ “No, _ Scorpius.”

“Sorry, Mum.”

“Hmmm… well… okay. Just out of interest, we never discussed our favourite Doctors. What did you guys think?” 

“The tenth.”

“Eleventh!”

“Tenth!”

“I liked the one with the long scarf.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! The eleventh was by far the best!”

“Did anyone notice the tenth doctor looked like Barty Crouch Jr.? No? Just me?”

“And what about the thirteenth—”

_ “NO!” _

The debate continued on… and on… quickly getting quite heated. Draco and Scorpius were adamant they preferred the tenth Doctor, Narcissa and Hermione _ loved _ the eleventh, with Lucius in the middle with the fourth. The only points they _ definitely _ all agreed on were (i) the War Doctor was the spit of Garrick Ollivander, and (ii) fezzes were _ not _ cool. 

“Excuse me!” Narcissa called out, desperate to change the subject. “Can we all… can… can we… excuse… oh, sod this… WILL YOU ALL SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP!”

They were stunned into silence. In all his years of wedded bliss — the Voldemort years don’t count — Lucius Malfoy had never heard his wife raise her voice or curse. Clearly his daughter-in-law was a bad influence. 

“Grandad?” Scorpius whispered as Narcissa closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, “What’s wrong with Nana?”

“Damned if I know,” Lucius muttered back. “Fancy a sleepover tonight? I’ll bring the Jammy Dodgers.”

“Deal. I’ll leave the door open, Grandad.”

“Cheers.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The things you can do with a sonic screwdriver...

Chapter Two

~o0o~

###  **“Does my bum look big in these?”**

Lucius eyed his wife from the doorway; she was twisting herself as she tried to look at her back in the mirror. Hmmm… she looked quite fetching in jeans, he had to say. They hugged her figure quite nicely.

“Cissa, my dear, you’ll break your neck.”

“Oh! Don’t sneak up on me like that! I’m not sure about this outfit, Lucius. It’s very… tight. You can see… well…”

“Everything?” He supplied with a smirk as he sauntered over. Standing behind her, he placed his hands on her hips and looked approvingly in the mirror. 

“Well, yes. It’s hardly proper. What will people think?!” She squirmed under his gaze, her arms crossing self-consciously over herself. 

“They’ll think, my dear, that you are beautiful and that I am beyond lucky to get to do this.” He gathered her hair up — pushing it over one shoulder — before placing his mouth on her neck, his eyes never breaking contact with hers in the mirror. 

Narcissa’s breathing hitched as his mouth scorched a trail from her ear to her shoulder. He continued to hold her firmly in place against him — not that she’d have moved. His gaze held her completely still, and she knew that look in his eyes… 

It meant she was in for a long and pleasurable night. 

“GERONIMO!” Scorpius squealed as he slid across the dining room floor, a plastic screwdriver brandished out in front of him. 

“Scorpius, whatever are you doing?” Lucius scowled at his grandson as the young boy gallivanted around the room. 

“I’m fighting the Daleks, Grandfather,” Scorpius shouted proudly as he swished his screwdriver in the air. 

“Well, I’ve never heard of a spell called _ Domino _—”

“Oh, sweetie, it’s _ Geronimo.” _ Narcissa patted his arm as she took her seat. “Leave him be, he’s just having fun.

“Yes, well. The dining room is for eating, not for… fun.” Lucius huffed as he turned a page of the Daily Prophet. 

“Oh, I don’t know, Lucius. I think we could have all kinds of fun in here.” Narcissa winked, pouring herself some tea. 

Flushing, Lucius hid his face behind the paper as images of his wife in her costume from last night filled his mind. He could certainly think of a few fun activities. 

“Oh, I’ve decided to change my outfit. I think I look too much like one of those western horse riders in the jeans and jacket.”

Flinging his newspaper down, he looked at his wife. His expression quite perturbed. “But… but… Cissa. You looked… well… brilliant!” 

Smirking at her husband’s response, Narcissa calmly buttered herself some toast. “Yes, well. I was thinking perhaps her outfit from The Library, or perhaps the dress she wore to the restaurant in the episode where she’s married to that man in the big red metal suit. It’s very elegant, so much more style.” 

“You mean the spacesuit? But… that’s so big.”

“Oh, you’re quite right. It would be just impossible to dance in. No, perhaps I’ll choose something else.” 

“And if you wear an elegant gown, people will think that you haven’t made an effort. It would be most unseemly if the host wasn’t seen to be taking part. It’s just like—” 

“Lucius, sweetie, what's that face? Are you thinking? Stop it. You're a man, it looks weird. Do not fret over what I am to wear. I have it all under control, and I think you’ll be most pleased.” 

“Ah, so you’re just teasing me. Hmph.” He turned back to his paper, scowling. “So what will you be wearing?” 

“Spoilers, darling. Spoilers.” 

**Did you know there are a lot of fraternal organisations that are known for wearing fezzes? These include Shriners, the International Order of Alhambra, the Mystic Order of Veiled Prophets of the Enchanted Realm, the Ancient Mystic Order of Samaritans, the Knights of Khorassan, the Improved Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks of the World, and the Loyal Order of Moose… but ** ** _not_ ** **, it would seem, Draco Malfoy.**

Draco frowned at his outfit, wondering if he should just give up and wear something else. The eighth doctor’s costume, perhaps? He’d pass as a Victorian dandy easily enough. 

Or the fifth doctor? 

No, wait… he couldn’t play cricket. 

What about the third?

Grandmother Malfoy had bought him a black velvet smoking jacket for his birthday one year, maybe it was still around. 

Ugh! At this stage he’d nearly wear the thirteenth—

FUCK, NO! BOLLOCKS TO THAT!

He really wanted to dress in the tenth doctor’s dark brown pinstripe suit — he didn’t like the blue one, the pinstripes were Gryffindor red — not forgetting his current love of Converse that was entirely his wife’s fault. He’d look cool, and feel even better. But Hermione loved the eleventh doctor — practically drooled over him — so an evening dressed as Matt Smith might just spice things up a little, right?

(Not that they needed any seasoning on their sex life, by the way.)

If only the eleventh doctor’s outfit wasn’t so… bland.

First was the shirt — crepe pink? Blush? Draco hadn’t a fucking clue but he was pretty sure the colour made him look even paler — and that was a feat in itself. At least the braces and bow tie were colour coordinated in scarlet.

He happened to like scarlet, just not certain shades of red. 

The boots and trousers were similar to ones he’d usually wear so he just decided to go for comfort and use his own. As for the Harris tweed jacket with elbow patches, well… he could pass for a slimmer, and considerably younger, Horace Slughorn. 

He shivered with disgust. 

Who wouldn’t, right?

The only interesting part of the costume was the sonic screwdriver. If Draco got his way after the ball, his Doctor Who would _ definitely _ be using it to investigate some rather intimate parts of Hermione’s box. 

All that was left was the fez…

No, there were no words.

None at all.

“It’ll all be worth it,” he muttered, gathering the outfit in his arms, “after the ball.”

Wondering how many vibration charms he could cast on the sonic screwdriver, Draco quickly dressed as the eleventh doctor and left his dressing room. 

He carried the fez.

###  **Rumour has it Hagrid uses magic to enlarge his… em… pumpkins. Eh… okaaaaay...**

Hermione had just finished adjusting her wedding dress when Draco walked into her own dressing room — all those rooms, they need to be utilised somehow — hoping she’d jump on him the moment she noticed what he was wearing. 

Well, that idea went straight out of the window. 

“Fucking hell, Hermione! What the... what the fuck is that!” He blinked a few times, waving his finger in the general direction of her outfit. 

“It’s a tear in space-time,” she deadpanned. “Seriously, Draco, it’s a bloody wedding dress.”

“That… that is not a… a wedding dress,” her husband practically stammered in disgust. “That is an abomination wrapped around whatever spell Hagrid used to use to enlarge his pumpkins. And what in the name of Circe’s leaky cauldron is that on your head?!” His eyes were focused on her long red hair.

Hermione twirled around, veil and flaming curls flying, hands firmly on her hips. 

“Firstly, your language is appalling, Draco Malfoy. I’m sure Tom would not appreciate you associating his fine establishment with a goddess’... intimate bits! Secondly, I’m Donna Noble, you idiot. Tenth Doctor? Runaway Bride? Remember we discussed whether I’d be Donna or Amelia Pond? It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Of course I remember! I was all for Amelia Pond and her kissogram outfit,” Draco pouted. 

“Yes, well, I didn’t fancy parading around in a skimpy policewoman’s outfit, thank you very much.”

Draco examined his nails. “I don’t suppose you’d consider parading around in a skimpy policewoman’s outfit for me… would you?”

“I will if you agree to dress as Gabriel Lorca for me,” she replied, winking cheekily. “Sexiest Star Trek captain ever!”

“Em… Hermione… I don’t know… do you not think he looks a bit like—”

“DAD! Are you guys ready? MUM! Everyone will be here soon. ”

“Relax, Scorp, they won’t be here for another hour!” Hermione called back, smoothing down her dress. “So, what do you think, Draco?”

He looked her up and down, settling his eyes back on her coloured hair. “I think if you’d married the Weasel, your kids would’ve been fuck ugly.”

“Good thing I’ve always fancied Charlie then,” Hermione quipped.

“Oh, you don’t get away with saying things like that,” Draco stalked towards her. “An hour you said?”

“Draco, we don’t have time… for that,” Hermione told her husband, who had begun stalking towards her, a feral look in his eyes.

“We have an hour, wife.” Draco smirked, twirling the sonic screwdriver in his hand, a naughty idea formulating in his mind.

Hermione took a step back every time her husband took one forward, until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. 

“Draco, really!” She tried to use her ‘don’t fuck with me right now’ tone of voice but Hermione knew it was no use — not with that look in his eyes. 

He placed the sonic screwdriver in the back pocket of his trousers, grabbing his wife around the waist and spinning her round, her back pressed into his chest. His hands reached up, pulling the ginger wig and hideous veil from her head. 

“I can’t fuck you while you look like a Weasley,” he growled into her neck, his teeth nipping at the soft skin while throwing the offending hairpieces behind him, out of sight. 

Hermione moaned, wiggling her arse against the growing bulge in the front of her husband’s trousers — she never could resist him, and why would she want to? 

Draco’s nimble fingers reached for the buttons keeping his delectable wife’s skin hidden from him, slowly popping each one and pulling the fabric from her shoulders. 

“Be quick, Draco. We don’t have much time,” Hermione gasped, reaching behind to palm her husband’s cock while stepping out of the dress that had pooled at her feet. 

“Hush, witch, I’ll be as slow as I like.”

Spinning her around again, he pushed her back onto the bed, noticing for the first time the underwear she had clad herself in. 

“Is this your wedding lingerie?” He breathed dangerously, his hands gripping her hips firmly in his grasp and lowering his head down to suck at one of her white lace-covered nipples. 

“Oh… my... Dr-Draco,” Hermione started as his tongue teased her hardened bud. “Ye-yes… it’s my wedding lingerie. Just because… oh... the dress is gross doesn’t mean the… the... underwear has to be.”

Draco growled against her firm breast, kissing his way down her stomach and slipping his fingers in the elastic of the matching french-cut knickers she wore. He slid them slowly down her legs, letting them fall to the floor. His hands ran up her smooth legs, parting her thighs as he dipped his head to lick at her wet folds. 

“Gods, Draco, you’re so good at that,” Hermione panted, pushing her core against his face. 

Draco smirked into his wife’s pussy, pressing two fingers inside her, rubbing at that spot he knew would drive her mad, his tongue circling her throbbing clit. 

Hermione came on his tongue, screaming his name as her hips jerked off the bed and her hands grabbed the back of his head, pushing him closer. 

Draco rode her orgasm out with her, before kissing the inside of her thigh and standing up. He started undressing, his eyes never leaving Hermione’s glazed expression, her chest rising and falling rapidly with her pleasure. He remembered to remove the sonic screwdriver, leaving it at the bottom of the bed and watched his wife’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. 

Once Draco was naked, he knelt onto the end of the bed and began crawling up her body. Lowering his head, he pushed his lips — coated with Hermione’s juices — onto hers, feeling her tongue slide against his lips. 

“We haven’t played for a while, Mrs Malfoy. Up for something a little different?” he whispered against her mouth. 

“How different?” she answered breathlessly. She and Draco had a very good sex life but sometimes they liked to explore unchartered territory.

“Do you trust me?” he grinned devishily, sitting back on his knees between her legs. 

“Draco, of course I do.”

“Then remove your bra and get up onto all fours.” He gave her room to move, noticing the slight tension rolling off her. 

Once Hermione was in position — her gorgeous arse swaying in front of him — Draco ran his hands over the smooth globes of her bum, his middle finger gliding down the crease, circling around her puckered hole. 

“Dr-Draco… we’ve never…” Hermione looked over her shoulder into the smouldering gaze of her husband. 

“I know we haven’t, love, but trust me, please. I want to try something.” Draco moved off the end of the bed, collecting his wand from the bedside table. “Turn your head back around.”

Hermione did as he bid, her forehead pressed into the downy pillow. Her breathing sped up as she felt a slippery finger press against her opening, slowly — so slowly — pushing into her. 

“Oh... gods... Draco.” The feeling was so foreign, but not unpleasant. 

Draco pulled his finger back out, slowly pushing in and out again, before adding a second one. 

Hermione’s heart was beating wildly, the sensation Draco was creating was exquisite. She felt him remove his finger and then the head of his cock was pushing against her. 

“Relax, love,” he said calmly, nudging his hard length further into her arse. 

Hermione exhaled deeply, feeling her body limpen slightly as he continued to probe further. 

Once he was fully inside, Draco stilled, waiting for her to get used to him being there. Hermione squirmed, wriggling her hips and pushing back on him. 

“I’m good,” she stated. “You can move.”

He grabbed her hips, fingers digging into her skin as he gently pulled out, then guiding himself back inside. He took it gradually, building her up deliberately and kneeling back, bringing her with him. 

“Oh… oh... Draco, it’s so deep this way.” Hermione was surprised at how good it felt, her knees either side of his as she lifted herself up and impaled herself back down on him. Draco gritted his teeth, her tightness gripping his cock like a vice. 

Breathing rapidly, his face buried into the crook of her neck, he moved his fingers along the sides of her ribs and across her breasts, his thumbs and forefingers pinching her nipples. Hermione arched her back at the thrill of pleasure coursing through her. 

One of Draco’s hands moved suddenly, making Hermione jump as she felt something hard, cold, and slippery press against her pussy. Just as she looked down, a shock of vibrations coursed through her soaking lips, making her gasp. 

Looking down between their legs, she bucked up at what she saw. 

“Draco… is that your sonic screwdriver?”

“Yes, I spelled it to vibrate,” he snickered, looking over her shoulder to see the head of his prop disappear between her pussy lips. “I’m going to fuck you with this, Hermione. Ready?” 

“Oh, gods,” she cried out, tears forming at the corner of her eyes at the sensations Draco was wracking upon her. The feel of his cock inside her arse, and the screwdriver vibrating just inside her centre, was making the solid length of him press even tighter inside her. 

Hermione used her thighs to raise herself up and plunge back down just as Draco pushed the pulsing screwdriver inside her. A feeling of complete fullness engulfed her every sense as she turned her head for his lips. 

It was all too much. Draco fucking her in that dark place, the vibrating prop he had fucking into her cunt, his tongue tangled with hers while his other hand continued to squeeze and pull her nipples. Hermione reached her hands up behind Draco’s head, fingers grabbing onto his blond locks, her body arching in unadulterated pleasure. 

She rocked against him, her body winding tighter and tighter before her orgasm crashed through her, clenching around the pulsing prop inside her. 

Draco ripped his lips from her, shouting out her name as she squeezed around him, making him come long and hard in her arse. 

“Fuck… fuuuuck,” he panted, the hand he had on her tits moving to tighten around her waist and hold her in place as he thrust up into her, trying to prolong his orgasm as long as possible. 

They both collapsed forward onto the bed, Draco quickly removing the screwdriver as Hermione fell forward. He used his elbows to hold himself up behind her, not wanting to squash her into the mattress. 

Hermione turned her head to the side, her breathing laboured as she came down from her high, Draco’s cock still pulsing inside her. 

“Draco… oh, my god… that was…”

“Incredible, fucking incredible, wife. You’re amazing,” he mumbled into the back of her neck, completely spent after such an earth-shattering orgasm. 

Both tried to calm their breathing. 

“MUM, DAD!! It’s party time,” came the shout of their son through the bedroom door. 

“Five minutes, Scorp,” Draco shouted back, not wanting the boy to enter their bedroom while they were in this position. “Go find your grandparents and we’ll meet you in the ballroom.”

“Okay.” 

They sighed in relief at his muffled reply as they heard him scamper away. 

As they untangled themselves and began dressing, Draco grinned evilly at his wife, watching her fix the hideous wig and veil back into place in front of their full-length mirror. 

“What?” she asked suspiciously, eyeing him in the glass. 

“I don’t think I’ll wash this,” he said, twirling the sonic screwdriver in his hand. “That way I’ll be able to smell you on it all night.”


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

~o0o~

###  **2nd October (because some gobshites are hosting a book launch at Halloween… no, wait… they ****_were_****… then it all went tits up!**

Molly bent down to hug Scorpius tightly, loving the little boy as if he was one of her own grandchildren. 

“Hi, Molly,” he winced as she kissed his cheek.  _ So gross!  _ “Your outfit’s cool.”

_ I wonder if she knows Carrie Fisher didn’t wear one of those bra things under her Princess Leia outfit either. Molly’s boobs are huge! UGH! _

“You look wonderful, Scorpius,” she praised, eyeing his statuelike costume. “You look so lifelike! And your wings! Look at them! What a beautiful angel you are, so innocent and… oh, I could weep! What do you think, Arthur? Doesn’t he look so perfect!”

“Oh, definitely, your highness,” Arthur agreed, strutting over in his Han Solo outfit. “A perfect statue. We could put him up on our mantlepiece, like one of those… em… oktars.”

Scorpius mimicked his mother’s eye-rolling habit. “They’re called  _ Oscars, _ Arthur,” he sighed.  _ Honestly! Old people haven’t a clue! _ “And guess what? Look at what else my costume can do.”

He turned around quickly so Molly and Arthur could see the second  _ angelic _ face fixed to the back of his head. 

Arthur just stared, unblinking. Molly screamed with fright and had to be calmed down with a couple of sweet sherries.

Narcissa’s rule of a magic-free party was driving Lucius to distraction.

“After all, we’re celebrating a Muggle interest, darling, so we should make an effort.”

Oh, he was making an effort, all right. Two hours into the party and he was making a huge bloody effort  _ not _ to trip over the ridiculously long scarf that was wrapped several times around his neck and making him sweat profusely. It was beyond disgusting.

Why the bloody hell did he choose the fourth doctor?! If Draco didn’t pick the eighth, why didn’t  _ he? _ Lucius fancied he’d have made a rather fine Victorian dandy. 

Or the fifth doctor? 

Hmmm… maybe not, he couldn’t play cricket. 

What about the third?

Grandmother Malfoy had bought Draco a black velvet smoking jacket for his… eh… some birthday or other, maybe it was still around. It would probably fit if Lucius held in his stomach a bit. 

At this stage he’d nearly wear the thirteenth—

PERISH THE THOUGHT!

There really wasn’t enough firewhisky in the manor to ease his frustration with his outfit. Lucius hated the ridiculously boring brown curly hair Narcissa had charmed for him; it looked so… normal… so…  _ mundane. _

He’d just have to pass the time pretending to be friendly with everyone while oogling at Narcissa’s arse in her outfit as often as he could.

Lucius didn’t actually recognise half the characters parading around his ballroom; there were quite a few ewoks but he reckoned they must be his own house-elves as there weren’t  _ that  _ many short people working at the Ministry. He also noticed quite a lot of vikings. 

“How  _ marvel _ ous,” he said, and then laughed out loud at his own joke, looking around to see who was laughing with him. 

Oh, people were staring alright. 

“What?” he declared haughtily, “I’m the doctor. It’s all perfectly fine.”

He marched off in search of Narcissa’s arse, tripping over his scarf again as he went.

Lucius passed by more Marvel costumes, squinting a bit as he tried to figure out who was who. 

Harry Potter had arrived as Peter Quill, aka Star-Lord.  _ Figures,  _ Lucius thought, _ he’s practically typecast — unwashed and shabby-looking.  _ The idiot seemed to think it was amusing to strut forwards for three or four steps and then swirl around, his long leather coat flying out around him as he pretended to move to the beat on his Walkman and shoot mini lasers at random guests. 

Beside Harry was his rather athletic-looking wife. Lucius always thought Ginevra Weasley was easy on the eye — but nothing compared to his Narcissa… oh, no… no way… not a chance… not going there… moving on… 

Anyway, the poor woman certainly wasn’t anything to look at now — she was all green and… green. It was, without a doubt, one of Lucius’ favourite colours — it’d probably be yours too if you were surrounded by various shades of it for at least seven years — but she just looked ill and… green. Her flaming hair was darkened to black, blending perfectly into her tight leather vest and trousers — and, Merlin, were they tight — but, Lucius winced, it was such a shame about all the green. There was, unfortunately, nothing glam about Ginny’s Gamora, but the outfit was… tight.

As for that imbecilic sidekick, he was looking as gormless as ever. For a moment Lucius thought Ronald Weasley hadn’t even bothered to dress up; he was just wearing his usual tattered and unkempt attire with his orange mop styled in a quiff. The only indication that he had made some sort of effort — miniscule as it appeared to be — was the name badge on his lapel that read ‘Philip J Fry.’ 

As for Weasley’s girlfriend — Lucius shuddered a little — all he could see was a rack the size of a house-elf sticking out from her skimpy top. She — he couldn’t even remember her name but seemed to recall she was named after a plant... or herb — had glamoured her face to that of a cyclops, her large eye blinking wildly as she cackled at something her partner had said. Her tag read ‘Turanga Leela’.

“By the way, Gin… you did know Leela was named after a wine, didn’t you?” the gormless one announced loudly, his attempt at showing off laughable.

“The wine, you dope, is  _ Tarrango _ , not Turanga,” his sister hissed. “It’s an Australian red. Lav’s character is named after the Turangalîla-Symphonie by Olivier Messiaen. But, of course,  _ you _ knew that, didn’t you Lavender?” Her voice was as sweet as one of Molly’s desserts.

“Oh, yeah,” Lavender replied instantly. “It’s a song about red wine, innit?”

Ginny was about to reply — no doubt scathingly — when a gasp from the braindead cyclops had her twirling around to see what was wrong. 

“Sweet Circe’s fanny!” Lavender breathed, her hand dramatically clutching her rather ample breast, “He is divine!”

Ginny could only raise an eyebrow.

“Who?!” Ron demanded, scanning the room quickly. “Who are you talking—”

Hermione and Draco chose that moment to walk over, both of them immediately asking Lavender if everything was alright. 

“Look…” she pointed weakly. “Look at him!”

Hermione followed her gaze. 

“Sweet Circe’s library! He looks amazing!”

“I know, right?”

Ginny now rolled her eyes. On a side note, this was probably only the second time ever that Hermione and Lavender agreed on anything. What a pity it was all about—

“Who are you talking about!” Draco demanded.

Ron was still looking around the room, his vacant expression now one of confusion. “Harry, who are they talking about?”

“No idea, mate.” Harry twirled around, flexing his hips as he continued. “Gin?”

“I need a drink,” his wife muttered, glancing at her best friend and… Lavender as they continued to drool over  _ him. _ “Nutjobs.”

She left them to their female hormones and male confusion, passing Lucius and a familiar group on the way to the bar. 

The twins were looking particularly unwashed and haggard, so unlike their usual flamboyant styles. Fred had his hair darkened and swept back to rest at the nape of his neck, a greying beard covering his face. He wore a battered sheriff's uniform with a Muggle gun swinging from a holster at his thigh. The only part of his costume missing was his hat. George also wore his hair dark but shaggy, his remaining ear sticking out through the unruly locks. His black clothes were dirty, the shirt sleeves torn away and his leather waistcoat tattered. He carried a crossbow over his shoulders and glared menacingly at other guests. 

Their wives were similarly dressed. Angelina’s hair was twisted into long dreadlocks, her clothes also having seen better days. A rather intimidating katana swung by her side, the blade glinting in the mirrors as she turned. Katie was — Lucius had to peer closely as he tried to figure out what they had all come as — drooling? What in the—

He sighed, giving up. He had no idea what or who the foursome had dressed as. But, judging by the state of them, they all looked like the walking dead. 

Lucius did hear snippets of their conversation, however, as he tripped by on his way to the bar. 

“Sweet Circe’s broomstick! He looks lush!”

“I know! I’ve never seen him look so… wow!”

“Who!” Their husbands asked simultaneously, dark heads turning in sync. “Who!”

Even Lucius was curious now. Who were they talking about? Maybe Narcissa might know…

“Darling,” he called, tripping up as he arrived at the bar. “Who—”

“Audrey, I know!” His wife was gushing… actually gushing. “Sweet Circe’s girdle! I could feel a hot flush coming on as soon as he walked in the door! By the way, your nineties’ pants suit is very authentic. Vintage?”

“Yes,” Percy’s wife replied, fanning herself as she too suffered a rise in temperature at the sight of— ugh! The man was sex on legs! “My mother is a huge fan of Muggle vintage clothing. I just told her I was coming as Dana Scully and, next thing I knew, I’m kitted out in this—” she indicated to herself “—sensible shoes and all. She even sourced a hideously boring suit for Percy’s Mulder. Doesn’t he look that part?”

“Always,” Narcissa replied, smiling kindly. “But, as for… my, my… he is—”

“Who is?” Lucius enquired, leaning towards his wife. “Who is everyone—”

“Not now, Lucius,” she interrupted, “Kingsley’s just arrived with… what in the name of… oh, Merlin, those two are ridiculous!”

Lucius watched his wife march over to the newest arrivals, not missing the sly look she gave… oh, he was going to have words with her later. He never thought Narcissa would  _ ever  _ glance at another man that way! And, judging by the rather angry expressions on many male faces around the room, his wife wasn’t the only one sneaking a peak. 

Hmmm…

“Kings! Welcome!” Narcissa hugged her friend as best she could. “I’d kiss your cheeks but Heimdall’s helmet does make it a tad awkward.”

“Indeed,” he laughed, holding onto her hands, “but the outfit is rather slimming, don’t you think?”

“You look every bit the warrior, Kingsley. As for you two—” she frowned at Sirius and Remus “—care to explain?”

“Well, my dear cousin,” Sirius began, his cheeky grin lighting up his face, “as a gay couple, Remus and I decided to bring our relationship into our costumes. You have to agree that my sexy-as-fuck husband — ornate breastplates and all — is a rather stunning Xena, Warrior Princess, and I — with my padded bra and shaved legs — am a seriously hot Gabrielle.”

Narcissa was lost for words.

“But speaking of hot,” Sirius continued, “what about—”

“I know,” his cousin nodded. “I know.”

“Sweet Circe’s butt plug,” Remus breathed, “that man is… woah! What I wouldn’t give—”

“I know,” his husband and Narcissa replied together. “I know.”

“I need a drink,” Kingsley muttered, spotting Lucius at the bar. At least, it might be Lucius. 

The two men greeted each other at the bar — Kingsley sipping his drink through a straw because his helmet was pinching his cheeks and Lucius drinking iced water to try to cool down as his scarf was slowly killing him. Everytime he tried to remove it, the offending article seemed to grow and squeeze like a boa constrictor. 

They were joined moments later by a bleached blond Neville, in an orange knit vest and black high-waisted trousers, with a ‘Multipass’ badge around his neck that identified him as Corbin Dallas. His best friend, Luna, had hair the colour of his vest and a similar badge with the name LeeLoo.  _ Her _ outfit only consisted of strategically placed white bandages, leaving Lucius and Kingsley focussing intently on their drinks, for fear of looking at something they shouldn’t.

_ At least we can behave,  _ Lucius thought.  _ The women are all drooling over… ugh! It’s disgusting! _

“Hi, Lucius, Kings,” Neville greeted both men cheerily. “Great party!”

“Mull-tee-pass,” Luna stated, to the utter confusion of her host and her boss. 

“Have you seen—”

“Not you as well, Longbottom,” Lucius groaned. “It’s bad enough the women are all swooning as he goes by. Don’t even get me started on Sirius and Remus.”

“But he’s looking so—”

“Longbottom! Enough!”

Kingsley placed a hand on Neville’s shoulder. “The scarf is wearing him down.”

“Oh, right.”

“Mull-tee-pass.”

Lucius closed his eyes, took a deep breath and re-opened them. Surely the party would be over soon, right? He excused himself to walk away from the bar, carrying his ever-growing scarf as he went. Ducking behind a pillar, he cast a quick  _ Tempus _ , his shoulders slumping as the time floating in front of him showed he had at least two hours to go before the guests would start leaving. 

“Everything alright, Lucius?” Bill Weasley’s voice brought him back to the present. 

“Ah, William, tell me,” Lucius sighed, “you’re not gay, are you?”

Bill laughed. “Married to the most beautiful woman in the world, how could I be?”

Lucius turned to the eldest Weasley, frowning at his costume. “Who are you?”

“Rick Deckard,” Bill replied, “we went back a few years so figured no one would recognise the outfits. Blade Runner? 1982?” 

Lucius stared at Bill, from head to toe. “That’s a futuristic film, am I correct?”

“Set in 2019.”

“So the creators of this film figured we’d all be dressed like your father by now?”

Bill winced, glancing down at his blue and brown shirt, patterned tie, dark brown trousers, mid-brown coat, hideous shoes… 

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Fleur joined them as quickly as her tight black skirt and killer heels would allow. She was dressed as Rachael Tyrell, the replicant. Her usual blonde hair was coloured to match her outfit and curled on top of her head. Shoulder pads — the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the eighties — gave her an almost triangular look as she trotted up to her husband and Lucius. 

“Bonsoir, Lucius, êtes-vous bien?” she greeted him warmly, kissing her host on both cheeks. 

“J'étais,” he replied, “jusqu'à son arrivée. Et, maintenant, toutes les femmes sont—”

“Ah, mais oui! Il est magnifique, non?”

“Not you as well, Fleur. He has all the women drooling like… like… animals in heat. It’s disgusting!”

“Sorry,” Bill interrupted. “Who are we talking about?”

“Your—”

“‘E is ‘andsome!” Fleur replied hotly. “Eet is not ‘is fault. You are jealous, non?”

Lucius spluttered, aghast. “I… I am not  _ jealous!” _

“Oui, vous êtes très jaloux. Regardez! All ze men are glaring… ‘e ‘as done nozzing wrong. ‘E is ‘andsome. Tonight, ‘e is ‘ot!”

Bill looked from his wife to Lucius, and back again. “Sorry, who—”

“Right! That’s it!” Lucius twirled around, tripped, and attempted to flounce off whilst trying not to trip again. 

It wasn’t easy.

“Pansy! Pansy!” he called loudly, catching her attention. “Could you come here, please? I can’t walk any farther without tripping over this damn… stupid—”

THUD!

“OW! Bloody, stupid, stupid scarf!”

“Father, are you alright?” Draco dashed over, helping Lucius up. “Listen, I need to talk—”

“Pansy!” 

“Pans!”

“Pansy!”

“Pansy!”

It went on and on.

The poor woman was suddenly surrounded by all the male guests, each one of them demanding her attention. She tried to ask what was going on but they were all shouting and gesticulating like wild animals — except for Lucius who was carrying his scarf in both hands. 

Deafened by the volume, and completely confused, she raised her fingers to her lips and let out a whistle that would give Madam Hooch’s a run for its money.

“Boys, boys,” she called out, looking around, “what in the name of Circe’s cervix is going on?! My Felicity Smoak costume isn’t  _ that _ good, you know; dressing like a nerd is hard when you’re me!”

“It’s not  _ you,” _ Lucius spoke first, juggling his scarf in his hands as it threatened to fall in a heap on the floor, “it’s your husband. He has to go… leave… never come back.”

Nods and murmurs of agreement surrounded her, all the men siding with Lucius. 

Except Sirius and Remus. 

“Now hold on a minute, Lucius Malfoy.” Narcissa marched up to her husband and stood to her full height in front of him. “How dare you speak about Pansy’s husband in that manner. He’s a guest!”

The wives and girlfriends who’d followed her took their turn to nod and mutter.

Pansy found herself in the middle of the two factions — one demanding her husband leave, the other insisting he stay — at a complete loss for words.

“He is a guest!”

“He is a distraction!”

“It’s not his fault you’re jealous!”

“How dare you! I’m not jealous!”

“Excusez-moi, you are a leetle.”

“Don’t you start!”

“Draco, why are you so childish about this!”

“Because you said earlier—”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, I didn’t mean it!”

“But you said—”

“You shouldn’t take things so personally!”

“So you don’t like—”

“Of course I do! He’s hot as hell!”

“He really is!”

“Shut up, Sirius.”

“Have you seen that arse?”

“SHUT UP, SIRIUS!”

Ginny — the only person who remained at the bar — slid her empty glass towards the little house-elf who looked totally baffled by what was going on. 

“I don’t know what all the fuss is about,” she moaned, drinking deeply from her refilled glass. “Everytime he walks past me I get that new car smell.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone guess who Pansy's husband might be? Read on to find out!

Chapter Four

~o0o~

After listening to the cacophony of everyone shouting and arguing for a minute more Pansy shouted for everyone to ‘ _ just shut the fuck up!’ _

“You do realise this is  _ my husband  _ you’re talking about, right?” Pansy seethed from under her long blonde wig. “It’s not my fault you’re all jealous of how good he looks. And really Lucius… I expected better from you. To make a guest at one of your parties feel so uncomfortable, he’s had to escape to the gardens.” With that, she glared at all the jealous man-babies circled around her and stormed off to find her husband. 

“Lucius, dear,” Narcissa sighed at her husband’s side. “I’m so disappointed in you. I think I may sleep in Scorpius’ room tonight. I’m much too furious to spend any time with you.”

_ Fuck! The Jammy Dodgers were hidden in there! _

“But… Cissa,” Lucius moaned, turning to follow his wife and tripping — once again — over the long multi-coloured scarf. “FUCK!” 

Hermione glared at her husband and followed Pansy out the french doors.

“Don’t know what everyone’s problem is, he looks hot.”

“Sirius!” Remus shouted. “Do you have to be so blatant all the time?” He stomped away, eager to be away from his husband and his roving eye for a while. 

“I don’t even know who he’s supposed to be. Is it that Zorro fellow Hermione mentioned?” Bill Weasley was at a loss trying to figure out who Pansy’s husband had come as.

Fleur huffed at her husband before stomping away herself muttering in low french tones about how much of an idiot her husband was.

The two witches made their way to where they could see the outline of Pansy’s husband sitting on a stone bench, his back to them. As they made their way around, the wizard looked up from under the hood of his costume. 

“Hi Charlie.” Hermione smiled as Pansy took a seat beside him, clutching his hand in hers.

“Don’t take any notice of them, sweetie! They’re just jealous that you look so hot. You may even look better than the original Oliver Queen!” Pansy smiled gently at her grumpy husband. 

“Pansy’s right you know. Even Draco was being a twat just then. I am surprised by Lucius’ reaction but they’re just jealous.” Hermione took a seat on Charlie’s other side bumping her shoulder with his. He really did look fucking hot. 

Tight leather pants, zip-up black leather hoodie (Hood pulled up a-la Arrow style) and his black eye mask. Charlie had even gone to the trouble of changing his stubble to the brown colour sported by Star City’s vigilante. Plus Charlie had the physique to pull off the outfit. 

“Please!” Charlie laughed. “You think I’m bothered what any of those idiots thought? I couldn’t give a Nifflers arse what they were saying.”

“Then why are you hiding out here?” His confused wife asked.

“I had to get away from Lavender. She kept following me around, pinching my arse.”

Hermione and Pansy both laughed at the same time. Typical Lav-Lav… she never could keep her hands to herself. 

“If I promise to stay by your side, shall we go back in?” Pansy asked, flipping her blonde hair over one shoulder whilst trying to adjust the glasses she had perched on the end of her nose.

Charlie grinned at his wife as he stood, hearing Hermione sigh.

“What’s wrong, Mi?” Charlie asked Hermione worriedly, using the nickname he’d called her since she was a little girl. “Are you not enjoying the party?”

“What? Oh… yeah… umm… I’m enjoying the party.” Pansy narrowed her eyes at the blushing bride still sitting on the bench.

“Okay, Lady Malfoy. Spill.”

“What… it’s nothing.”

“Hmm mmm.” Pansy crossed her arms, tapping one stilettoed foot against the gravel.

Charlie looked between the witches wondering what was going on.

“Fine,” Hermione huffed, throwing her arms up before standing. “It’s just… well… I have a huge crush on Oliver Queen and Charlie looks so… Oh, God.” Hermione’s cheeks were flaming in embarrassment as she covered her face with her hands. 

Pansy laughed loudly. “You’re married to my best friend and an extremely handsome wizard to boot but you’re crushing on my husband.”

“NO!” Hermione exclaimed. “I mean, yes. Yes, I am married to Draco — who is incredibly handsome — but Oliver has always been my tv crush. Merlin, I should just shut up. Let’s go back to the party.” She turned to make her way back towards the sounds of the party through the french doors, completely mortified.

Charlie threw an arm around her shoulders, his chest vibrating against her side with his laughs as he held hands with Pansy on his other side.

“It’s alright, Mi. I know I look hot. Now let’s go rile up those idiot, jealous wizards and keep Lav away from my toosh.”

Hermione laughed, elbowing her friend in the ribs as they walked. 

~o0o~

Lucius was in a foul mood, his costume was seriously bothering him, the scarf kept trying to strangle him and now his Cissa wanted nothing to do with him for the rest of the night. 

He spotted Charlie, Hermione, and Pansy walk back in, an evil idea forming in his mind. With a sleight of hand, no one would suspect him of, Lucius cast a spell at the Arrow wannabe, watching gleefully as Charlie’s costume transformed into that of the very first Dr. Who — William Hartnell. Smirking at his brilliant plan, hearing Pansy shriek as Charlie’s trousers turned into an obscenely patterned pair of loose-fitting trousers, accompanied by an awful waistcoat — contrasting terribly against the trousers. Shoulder length grey hair sprouted from the Weasley man’s head, wrinkles appearing across his once handsome face. 

Lucius was particularly pleased that he’d managed to make the whole outfit black and grey — just as his family had seen when his daughter-in-law made them watch the god awful show. 

Sauntering alway, quite pleased with himself, Lucius’ smirk turned into worry as he came face to face with Narcissa — her arms crossed over her chest, tapping her foot angrily against the floor. 

“Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, you foul, loathsome, evil cockroach! I saw that.” His wife fumed. 

_ Double fuck!! He was most certainly in trouble now!  _

“How dare you do that to a guest of ours… I’m so… Merlin I…” Narcissa was absolutely fuming at her husband's treatment of Charlie Weasley. 

_ Jealous little snake!  _

“I think you should leave!”

“Wha… but Cissa…”

“Oh don’t you Cissa me, you miscreant! I can’t stand to look at you right now!” With that, Narcissa stormed away, casting her wand at Charlie and turning him back into Oliver Queen, to the mass applause of every female in the room who had suddenly stopped to watch Narcissa lay the smackdown to her husband. 

Lucius bowed out as gracefully as he could, turning and walking from the ballroom, muttering  _ fuck  _ once again as the scarf tried to kill him… again!

~o0o~

The rest of the party was enjoyed by the guests, Charlie and Pansy winning tickets to the next England Quidditch game for best outfits. 

Once everyone had left, Narcissa retired to Scorpius’ room, making good on her promise to not give her husband a happy ending that evening. Instead, she and Scorpius cuddled together, watching Ironman and eating Lucius’ secret stash of Jammy Dodgers. 

Meanwhile, over the other side of the Manor, Draco was slowly undoing the buttons at the back of Hermione’s hideous dress, his nefarious plans whirling in his brain on the many number of ways he could pleasure his delectable wife with the sonic screwdriver hidden in his back pocket. 

_ Fin  _


End file.
